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Wednesday, 1 January 2014

Senach

Senach Henri Roussecut celebrated his six birthdays
since his twenty-first in what was, to him, the brightest manner possible:
hitchhiking from Redferne, Sydney, Aus, to Melbourne, likewise within the
domain of charming Aus and to Redferne’s distant south.

‘Chilly, chilly, chilly,’ he said to himself.
He had spent the night in a gazebo atop Mount Macquarie Pass and he was keeping
south in an old East German overcoat and a thick cotton blanket wrapped around
him. It was still bitingly cold though.

‘Chilly, chilly, chilly.’

‘You’ve said that already.’

It was looking up for more diversion that
Senach noticed the crumpled envelope. It was apparently a windowed envelope,
with an enclosed crumpled sheet, pale yellow at either the head or the tail,
and sticking out invitingly. Senach stopped his trek and looked at the letter a
little ahead and across the road.

Senach approached the missive.

It was addressed to Senach H. Roussecut.

‘Senach!’ exclaimed Senach. Senach is a
very rare Gaelic first name and so to meet with one’s own namesake in the
middle of nowhere is fairly miraculous. Not to mention that he had the same
initial as Mr Roussecut as well as the same surname. Senach proceeded to read
the note.

It was a form letter from the Commonwealth
Bank of Aus asking Mr Roussecut if he wanted to rollover or withdraw his two
hundred and ninety thousand dollar term deposit. Assuming no correspondence
from Mr Roussecut the term deposit monies would be rolled over. The
Commonwealth Bank of Aus thanked him for his investment and remain open to
further business.

‘Sounds like someone I should get to
know,’ said Senach. He looked at Senach H. Roussecut’s address: La Belle, Mauriton.

Finding Mauriton on the GPS of his phone he
headed off to meet what had to be a new relation.

*

Monsieur Roussecut was just as run down as
‘La Belle’, if indeed it was Monsieur Roussecut who answered the door.

‘I’m not a hawker, my name is Senach
Roussecut too, we must be related.’ Monsieur Roussecut adjusted his rags. They
looked to be once white, or of a pale pastel, but were now begrimed and
distinctly malodourous.

‘Senach!’ exploded M. Roussecut. ‘Rare old
Gaelic name that; are you sure you’re not a hawker? How do you know my name?’

‘I found this letter and since we have the
same first and last names decided to visit you.’ Senach handed over the letter.
Senach pointed out that it had already been opened. M. Roussecut briefly
perused it, crumpled it and the envelope together, and threw it away again.

‘Do you mind if I step inside for a while? After all we must be related with a rare
first name like ours, not to mention having identical surnames, and it’s always
good to know family.’ M. Roussecut begrudgingly grunted, allowing Senach inside
the hovel.

And it was indeed a hovel. The place was
cold, lightless except for a fire in the hearth of the living room, and the
walls were obviously darkly layered. There was also the unmistakable odour of
vegetables passed their prime. Senach could see the barren kitchen down the
hall and he walked passed the only bedroom with a lone single mattress and a
thin disgusting quilt. The room with the shut door was probably the parlour and
was as likely to be infected as the rest of this house appeared to be. M.
Roussecut led Senach to the fire.

‘So you’re a Senach, eh?’ asked Roussecut
when they were seated, companionably enough.

‘Yes. Senach Henri Roussecut.’

‘Is your mother’s maiden name Roussecut?’

‘Yes, Marionne Roussecut.’

‘She’s in her mid-forties by now?’

‘Forty-six, just after New Year’s eighteen
months ago, 2011.’ M. Roussecut looked from Senach and gazed into the glowing
fire for some moments. ‘Marionne is my elder sister. She never could stand my
daring thoughts.’

‘Mama has never mentioned a brother.’

‘I became dead to your family when I got
hooked on harry.’

‘Harry?’

‘Heroin. That’s what happened to all of
the furniture; I sold it off a bit at a time for shots. And it was a real
bastard transporting it all in to Mauriton to the pawn shop.’

‘Are you still addicted to harry, to
heroin?’

‘Not at all, now I save my pension, off
the horse for over twenty years. I own this house, inherited it from a rich underworld
junky who had a grain too much one day, and I keep my expenses to fifty bucks a
fortnight. I grow my own fruit and veggies, only needing meat and the
incidentals.’

‘How older is my mother than you?’

‘Five years. We’ve always had opposite
tastes. She probably named you after me because she could never help but look
out for me. She must have never really given up the hope of me getting off the
junk. She probably meant to somehow influence me by bequeathing my name on her
innocent newborn, somehow channel its newfound possibilities for me. Does
Marionne still avoid alcohol?’

‘Religiously.’

‘Well, we’ll have a sup to renew the family
ties,’ said M. Roussecut while chuckling to himself and groping under the only
armchair in the living room. Senach was precariously perched on a three-legged
chair. ‘Just hang on,’ said M. Roussecut, ‘I think there’s still some Merlot
around here somewhere.’ M. Roussecut not finding the promised bottle under his
armchair went into the adjoining kitchen. ‘Finally!’ he said after locating a
corked half full bottle of red wine. ‘Here’s to Marionne!’ He had brought the bottle back into the
living room, but with no glasses. ‘We’ll take swigs at the bottle,’ he informed
Senach.

Roussecut explained his most shameful
memory of the junk was missing his sister’s wedding. Marionne was married on
her twenty-first, to a respectable gentleman, while M. Roussecut was hunting
for junk. He didn’t turn up to the wedding, which had started a half hour after
he shot himself a nice shot of harry. He had been clean now though for
twenty-five years, completely clean with the help of the methadone (a medical substitute
for heroin) program, and revealed that he had gradually become obsessed with
relapsing, saving all of his money in case of ‘an event.’ Thus the rags and
littered home. M. Roussecut did not spend his pension but saved most of it and
the term deposit was the result of over twenty years of saving and investing. His
pension he had received under absolutely false pretences, having for six months
faked being schizophrenic (after researching into schizophrenic symptomology)
and being granted a federal disability support pension in consequence.

After this history M. Roussecut followed
up with this question of Senach,

‘You wouldn’t have a place to let in the
big smoke, would you? I presume you’re
from the big smoke? That big, fancy
backpack says you’re heading either to Sydney or from it.’

‘From it. To Melbourne.’

‘Would you have a room to spare at your
place when you get back to Sydney? Like
I said I get a government pension so money is little worry for rent, and I
really hate having to clean this place.’ The place was putrid; M. Roussecut
probably meant that it was an impossible house to clean.

‘Ok,’ responded Senach to his uncle’s
enquiry. It was only polite; Roussecut’s place was a carcass. ‘I have a two
bedroom flat but we’ll have to go halves on everything: rent, electricity,
food, everything.’

M. Roussecut looked around his squalid
abode, imagining the cleaner bliss he had recently begun to dream about.

‘Let’s head off now,’ said Roussecut.

Well, why not, thought Senach. M.
Roussecut simply stood up and was ready to leave. The fire was low so he could
afford to leave it safely.

‘Ready,’ he said. Senach picked up his
backpack again. ‘Ready,’ he said. They headed out of the door of the decrepit
house and off to Redferne via Melbourne.

*

Senach was duly lauded for returning this
sheep to the family abode, bearing the lamb come through adversity. M.
Roussecut’s mother, meeting him the day after his reunion with his sister,
prayed a Hail Mary over him at this returned good fortune. Hallelujah!

Roussecut now lives in Chippendale, having
sold his house for a one bedroom flat, and just recently become a complete teetotaller.
But he doesn’t live at home; more often than not he’s at Marionne’s or Senach’s
soaking up all of the healthy family years he has missed. He still gets the
occasional cravings for junk which he repels with the clear realisation that
his hovel would easily welcome him back. Life will just as easily let you slip
as let you bloom, Senach.

‘Cheers, Marionne!’

‘Cheers, Senach!’

***

If you've been enjoying Denis' stories on this blog you may also like his debut novel, This Mirror in Me, available on Kindle at http://amzn.to/16p4XDn for $3.87. It tells the story of a mathematics professor's highly unusual Saturdays ritual. It has been given a five star rating, received shortly after its release. If you don't have a Kindle you can download the app for free on your smartphone or tablet.